


Mascioli Pour Ost

by Atulreiter



Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Courting Rituals, Cybertronian Reader (Transformers), Fancy Parties!, M/M, Multi, Noble AU, Other, Polyhex, Pre-War, Romance, Tarn - Freeform, Vos - Freeform, Worldbuilding, descriptive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:54:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26550073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atulreiter/pseuds/Atulreiter
Summary: The prequel for my next fic (unposted) featuring Prowl/Reader/Jazz. It sets up the established relationship needed for the main one to make a bit more sense.The premise is simple:Lord Jazz just wants to be but that's just not at all how politics work.
Relationships: Jazz (Transformers)/You, Jazz/Reader
Kudos: 11
Collections: The Monochrome Triad





	1. Presenting: The Unctum

**Author's Note:**

> Okay! So first off welcome everybody! Fair warning this story does have quite a bit of headcannon. That happens when creating worlds. The first chapter really should be the most difficult to fall into but after that, it should be pretty easy to get a handle on. I mean, I'm hardly the first person to write a fic about Lords and Ladies of the Court so if you're familiar with the basics, you'll most likely be fine.  
> For those of you checking here after checking out my other Jazz/Prowl/Reader fic, don't worry! I'm working on that one, too! In fact the next chapter's already got 10,000 words and it's not even close to being done so there is a reward for your patience I just really needed to get this one out because it would not leave me the hell alone and now that my creative muses have been satisfied, I can hunker down again. 
> 
> Quick notes!  
> •This is early in Cybertron's history--way before the war--so some personalities for side Transformers may be slightly altered as they were products of war and not necessarily how I imagine they might be during their younger ages during peacetime. Along those same lines, Cybertronian bodies aren't currently overly bulky unless that's just normal for the individual on account that they don't really need such overwhelming armor when not fighting planet-destroying wars! ^_^  
> •Each city-state has 10 Lords responsible for the development and prosperity of their territories--One for each branch of science: Scientia (Formal Science), Physica (Natural), and Socialis (Social Sciences) and one for each form of art: Architectura (Architecture), Scalptor (Sculpture), Pictura (Painting), Litteratura (Literature), Musicorum (Music), Histrionia (Performance), and Tainias (Film/Image Captures).  
> •Each city-state also has a Senator and a Head Priest that reports to the Prime. It's Nominus and his caste system is in effect.  
> •Time!  
> Cycles are days/nights. Groons are weeks. Orns are months. Vorns are years. 
> 
> I'll try my best to explain any strange words but if I miss one, lemme know and I'll fix it! Thanks!

Jazz was nervous. He was trying very hard not to be but it wasn’t working very well. The disproving downward tilt of his sire’s doorwings would have told him as much even if he hadn’t clicked his vocalizer disapprovingly, “Relax your faceplates. You’re going to dry with creases.”

The young mech sighed, shuttered his optics, and switched to clenching his digits instead. The green femme updating his color relaxed.

Lucky her though it was more a matter of experience than chance.

This wasn’t her first Unctum.

It showed.

His sire’s, Stepper’s, red and black armor had been washed, detailed, polished, and adorned to perfection in little over two joor. His white helm gleamed brighter than he’d ever seen. The reflective gold of his visor matched the shimmering detailing on his chassis perfectly. The intricate gilded metals molded to the top edges of his crimson doorwings and the topaz gems magnetized into a spiraling pattern starting from his matching pedes and tapering off at his thighs rivaled the setting sun. Now he reclined on the chaise tucked off to the side of the ring of ceiling-length vanity mirrors Jazz now stood before, waiting and watching as their detailer buzzed about his form with brushes and spray paint.

Jazz’s own preparations were taking a bit longer.

This was his first Unctum.

Hopefully it didn’t show.

Usually his sire and his first creation, Ricochet, attended this massive dinner party—second in prestige only to the ones held in Iacon for the Senate—together. During their absence Jazz occupied himself with the smaller festivities happening in tandem within their home city-state of Polyhex. He preferred them greatly to the things he’d heard from his cognate about what was to come. But Ricochet had fallen into a mood five orns ago that left him largely indisposed.

This wasn’t unusual. The mech was unpredictable enough that contingency plans for previous ones were drawn and redrawn on a constant basis. When their creator had warned Jazz of the possibility of his attendance, the younger hadn’t really concerned himself with it at all. Ricochet would get over himself as he always did.

The groons passed quickly though. His cognate continued to fluctuate. Jazz had prayed as often as he remembered to that Ricochet would snap out of it in time but it was for naught. Jazz was in Tyger Pax, so far down the planet he couldn’t mount an escape even if he wanted to, waiting to be torn to scraps over any and everything the other nobles could find that they didn’t like about him over the next four cycles. No pressure.

“…You look so much like your carrier.”

Jazz cracked open his optics and caught his reflection.

Bulbous pauldrons bordered with broad glittery black strokes covered the hovers of his alt-mode at his shoulders. Magnets hidden behind a large dark blue onyx brooch held them in place on either side of his chassis. An identical but jewel-less silver star was attached to his core just above his black modesty paneling. A single link of delicate chain crossed high over each thigh to attach to the sides of his hip struts. Knee and elbow armor of the same style if not sleeker than the additions at his shoulders blended the sharper lines of his protoform. Twin garters with flaring wings dramatized the width of his hips. All additions were studded with a single glittering crystal just below the center.

As opulent as the rest of his paintjob was, his face was probably the most important. Jazz could understand his sire’s chastisement. His armor would be on display only until he took his seat with the other Polyhexian lords. After that, his face would be their most lasting impression and it needed to be flawless.

Thankfully he’d gotten away with keeping his visor. It, like the rest of his normal wear, had been replaced with the best his creator could commission for this event. His sensor horns had been thinned and the strong lines of his cheeks had been seemingly rounded by the way the new vents arched downward rather than forward as usual. In the event they clicked on at least they would fog up the gaps between his protoform and his armor rather than his vision.

He thought he looked most like his sire just soft where Stepper was so overwhelmingly unyielding but the young mech lacked doorwings and Jazz’s legs were longer and overall he was more solidly balanced, he thought. Ricochet, though he did inherit the white helm and hands from their sire, seemed to have more dissimilarities that Jazz could only assume were more after their carrier. Still, Jazz had never met them. Stepper would surely know best, “Thanks.”

He wasn’t sure if that had been the best thing to say but the designer was finishing up his wax and his CPU kept reminding him that he was that much closer to stepping into the fanciest gladiator pit on the planet and Jazz was a confident mech but he really hadn’t prepared for this as much as Ricochet did in the orns before he attended every vorn.

“You’re finished, my lord.”

“Thank you, Grace,” Stepper rumbled when Jazz found he couldn’t utter a single word.

The green femme inclined her helm and did not meet their optics with her own golden ones, “Of course, my lord. Enjoy your evening. I will come back to prep you for recharging when you have finished.”

As she left, Stepper rose to his pedes, the bright cool white light shining on one side of him in a high glare, “Relax. The first cycle is the easiest. We sit with the same mecha we see every groon and Full-Tilt will be available to assist whenever you need him. If you need him. _Try not to need him._ ”

With a flick of red doorwings, Stepper turned and strode purposefully from the room. Jazz followed his sire from the vanity through his private room and into the common area of the suite they shared with three other lords from Polyhex. Stepper inclined his helm to the bejeweled ruby aerial lounging across one of the pair of two-seaters gathered around a holorscreen, “Lord Powerglide.”

Jazz’s grin was thing of habit as was his subsequent attentiveness to his peer’s prattling about his latest routine. Jazz had attended its debut two orns prior and hardly needed a rundown. He received one anyway, “I can’t wait for this cycle to be over.”

The black-and-white noble tuned back in as the thought he’d been thinking reached his audials instead. Thankfully he hadn’t been the one to say so out loud. It was still Powerglide. He responded as neutrally as he could with his sire so nearby, “Understandable.”

Blue optics shifted as if they’d only just noticed him. Jazz felt confident in his visor’s ability to conceal the roll of his optics, “This is your first Unctum, isn’t it?” He didn’t wait for a confirmation and offered a brief once-over. There followed an appreciative hum but no compliment, “This cycle's boring. The next's when the real party starts. Tracks thought he had me last time but everymech knows he’d been cheap with his armor. And those Vosians never want to go flying after but they’ll have no choice once they see my latest nosedive. They’re too arrogant for their own good. I’ll show ‘em.”

“Now is not the time to provoke our western neighbors,” Stepper said with the same tense edge to his voice he always seemed to have lately. Powerglide did not appreciate it.

“Putting them in their place ain’t the same as provocation. An ego check jus’ might solve our problems.”

“Or make them worse should you fail. Acrobatics are not the same as an airstrike.”

“We should not speak so negatively of our fellow guests so soon before we join their presence,” a new voice, quiet but sure murmured. Jazz’s smile came a little easier when Pointblank, another scarlet-armored mech just in a more saturated shade than the other two complimented by shimmering periwinkle blue, eased around to sit in the single chair opposite them all. His shoulders and knees had been similarly adorned to Jazz’s own except rather than make the red mech curvier he’d chosen to dramatize the strength of his limbs.

“I agree,” Jazz said, chancing a quick glance at his sire. Stepper was undisturbed, the conversation seemingly forgotten. Powerglide didn’t take it so gracefully and tried unsuccessfully to pull his elder into a debate about the specifics.

“It’s starting,” Grapple, the last of their roommates, said pointedly over the noise as he emerged from his suite. Every inch of his protoform was covered in thick, heavy, layered, amber armor so impressive Jazz could’ve stared for joor without figuring out how all the pieces locked together. The only thing that deterred him was the harsh light glinting in those equally citric optics. All attention shifted to the holoscreen that came to life with an uncomplicated intro going over the Unctum with panning visuals of the hotel they were staying in overlain with prominent fixtures from each of the polities. 

There were general thanks to the service mecha who worked to make the event run smoothly, to Tyger Pax who’d agreed to host (a move that had clearly been for personal gain as there were plenty of sweeping venues recommended for them to try at their leisure), and finally to each of the nobles and Jazz found his spark racing again because it was starting, _actually_ starting.

A short spiel on the splendor and prestige of Iacon preluded the entrance of the ten lords from the region. A bronzed double staircase leading down from behind a gated balcony materialized onscreen as each designation with its matching title and owner filtered in.

Altihex. Hydrax. Kalis. Even Kaon. Every Cybertronian glittered and glowed, the splendor of their frame décor only hastily hinted at as each spent little over a breem in their own personal spotlight. Then it was Polyhex.

All of their personal handlers filtered into the common room and urged their lords to move into position to be lead in.

“ _Relax,_ ” his sire hissed one final time as he took his position behind Grapple. Jazz himself was tucked behind Pointblank and before the increasingly impatient Powerglide. Excited murmuring reached his audials as the heavy dark brown door opened into a hall cast in pure white light. He was set even further away from his sire when the Lord of Painting took his place before Pointblank but behind Stepper.

They moved languidly through the colonnades. Each pillar had Jazz curling his digits. Was the entrance just around this massive curved edge or the next? The one after? Which? Then the last of the Kaonites were announced and Jazz heard it not through a speaker but in his own presence. His optics closed.

Polyhex’s lords of science went first. There were only three as was the custom for each of Cybertron’s territories. The Lord of Social Sciences was coming up on his last few steps at the bottom of the left staircase when Grapple was urged forward. He went down the right.

His sire down the left. The Pictura down right. The left for Pointblank…

“Lord Jazz Musicorum of Polyhex.”

“Approach the balcony, bow, then come back and go down the right.”

“Make it quick, would ya? I’m next!” Powerglide said at the same time that Full-Tilt urged him forward.

“Three klick intervals,” his handler insisted with subharmonics that implied a suggestion even as the words were spoken in the conjugation of a command. Jazz resolved to tune them both out. A 3/4th time signature echoed in his helm and he let his pedes follow it.

‘ _Three by three, measures and beats. Don’t pay attention ta the audience, just keep the tempo…_ ’ he told himself as he approached a massive rotunda full of Cybertronians with the power to make the rest of his functioning a trip to the Pits if he messed up.

Then he saw the grandeur of the venue and suddenly he had to remember to move not because he was nervous but because there was just so much to take in. There was so much white! Or rather it should’ve been. The domed roof—a frosted skylight closing off the center--tossed the sun’s late afternoon glow from its crown of squared windows against tall pillars that stretched from the bottom floor up beyond the balcony Jazz now stood before. The upturned faces of roughly 50 mecha were almost indistinguishable tucked away as they were between the clusters of majestically dressed tables arranged across the glossy floors. A massive fountain—silent for the moment—tied the room together but also served as Jazz’s focal point.

‘ _Two measures_. _Six more beats_ ,’ he bowed as he’d been taught to do from the moment he could properly stand and turned away. Descending the stairs was easy with so many things to take in. It wasn’t until he neared the bottom that he realized he had no idea what to do next. Before his cables could so much as tense, however, a footmech tucked away behind the banister whispered, “Off to your left, my lord, next to your Lord of Social Sciences.”

“Thank ya,” he murmured back, hoping that the camera had moved on from him.

Powerglide’s designation and title came soon enough. The large smile he’d been holding back broke free a little when he caught sight of his sire. Stepper’s wings flicked just the tiniest bit, a small proud grin curling his usually downturned mouth. “The hard part has passed for this cycle,” he rumbled when Jazz passed to stand behind his seat as everyone else was doing.

He scrutinized the table set as the last two Polyhexians were presented, wondering if the napkins folded meticulously across his plate were as silky as they looked. A yellow vase infused with soft lights held the centerpieces for each table. Opaque white crystals clustered into three globular spheres spilled over the top. Borax-crusted strings twined above their helms. A massive holoscreen stretched beneath the balcony allowed those furthest away the ability to still see the current walking noble in better detail.

Protihex followed the Polyhexians who preceded Praxus. There was an increased flurry of activity in the air though no one moved when they were presented. Jazz could understand why. Of all the mecha he’d seen so far, they were the most alluring. Their chevrons pressed an intense smolder into their faceplates that required no maintenance and their doorwings worked as extra canvas space for flaunting though they indulged in very little of it. They didn't need to. Crisp lines accented with simple jewels at the border between colors seemed to be the standard for the region. Powerglide was practically vibrating as his right when Lord Tracks Histrionia of Praxus appeared overhead.

Confidence lived in every piece of navy blue metal on his curvy protoform. Jazz could admit that he was incredibly attractive. His white doorwings—smaller and more angular than the other Praxians’—were held wide on display. The line of rubies running down their middles caught the light and bounced off his silky finish. A perfectly molded white helm cradled a stunning scarlet face--mouth stretched into a cocky grin further dramatized by the sharp dip of his silver chevron. He, like Jazz, had also been outfitted with twin metal garters that curled up the sides of his thighs to stress the softness of his hips. He moved slowly, subtly turning this way and that to provide the best viewing angle. 

The Stanix Wilds were next. Their nobles wrapped their protoforms in glittery colorful fabric rather than armor. Shiny metal clips held their outfits closed. The edges were printed with matching sparkling thread and the exposed bits of their protoform were painted with the same complicated glyphs woven into the pieces covering their chests. Jazz stared for as long as he could without being rude trying to read them as they swept passed his table.

Tarn followed them.

Once again there was disquiet but this time it wasn’t in anticipation of beauty. It was more a reverent fear though Jazz couldn’t fathom why. The Tarnese were just their quiet neighbors to the north. It wasn’t until the announcers started dropping designations that he understood.

Their Lord of Science was Perceptor, a mech so devoted to his craft he’d actually managed to claim not only his lordship of the natural sciences but also the formal disciplines for his city-state. It was certainly an uncommon occurrence but that wasn’t even the most impressive move of their ruling caste.

Scrapper. Everyone on Cybertron knew his story whether they agreed or not. He was basically a legend. The mech had onlined in the lower castes but his skill was so unrivaled Senator Shockwave had made him a Lord of Architecture against the formal laws instated by Nominus Prime himself. He traveled so much Jazz didn’t know he belonged to Tarn. Across the table from him, Grapple rumbled unhappily. 

Hook. Jazz knew him. Though not nearly as overwhelmingly talented as the previous noble, the snobby mech was more than qualified for his place as Tarn’s Lord of Sculpting. Ricochet, Polyhex’s own lord of that art when he wasn’t forcing their creator to reassume the responsibility, occasionally met with him for advice when their schedules could overlap.

He was unfamiliar with the next three nobles to strut down the stairs though their Lord of Music, Blaster, who moved with the kind of rhythm only a true musician could achieve was definitely someone he wanted to get a chance to talk to.

The mech that followed was another that drew attention. Once again no one moved but there was a buzz in the air and Jazz just knew he was missing something when even a quick glance at his sire revealed mild surprise. Their armor did not glitter as most others preferred rather it gleamed and reflected a harsh glare with how ridiculously polished it was. Unlike the other nobles from their city-state they had chosen minimal armor coverage. Smooth (light/dark) protoform stretched from just under their neck to the start of the chassis plating that segmented at the waist and then again at the hip struts to allow for better ease of movement. The pauldrons, of the same burning metal as the chassis, did not curve down or out but rather spiked up in the center and out at the edges into sharp points. The top and bottom layers were embroidered with intricate white detailing. The elbow and arm braces flared in a similar manner but once more their bare protoform was available to see on their servos. Metal armor coverings on their digits reinforced the delicate claws. Unlike Jazz’s hip armor which was designed to accentuate curves, theirs intended to smooth them down a little with two spear-pointed plates; one decorated and layered above the other that traveled down until it encased the sides of their thighs. A plain white circlet caught on the width of their hip-plating opened at the front to drop a thick braided cord of black metal between their legs overtop their white and (color) modesty paneling. Three white precious jewels rounded into spheres were knotted to dangle just before the purposefully frayed end. Their upright audial finials—in sharp contrast to the rest of their form—were heavily armored in the same burnished metal until they pierced the air as pointed horns. A diadem crossing their dark (color) helm connected them. Their dark (color) vents cradled their (light/dark) cheeks in a way that made the piercing focus of their smoldering (color) optics the ultimate focus even as they bowed. The action drew attention to the plume of sheer star-studded dark (color) metallic fabric billowing down their armored backstruts from an attachment behind their audial horns.

Lord [Name] Histrionia, the Tarnese Lord of the Art of Performance, was a combatant. Jazz could see it in the movements—too careful and calculated, waiting to be assaulted but confident that whoever tried would immediately regret it. A silent challenge wrapped up in a spikey brazen warning. Their Lord of Film moved forward but Jazz's optics followed the Tarnese Histrionia until they settled to stand beside a tall royal blue mech that Jazz had sworn was introduced with Iacon as their Lord of Music.

A quick glance at the opposing table revealed that the Tarnese Blaster had moved there instead. Jazz almost frowned but then Tyrest was being presented. Then Uraya and finally Vos—their western neighbor and the ones he'd been cautioned against the most.

Flight class mecha shouldn’t be so bold, so beautiful or so powerful but they _were_.

They sparked the most intense range of emotion. Desire warred heavily with hatred until the two were largely indistinguishable from one another. The Vosians were unperturbed. Rather they seemed to like the attention and stalked across the banquet hall--jewel-crusted heeled thrusters clicking, raised wings encased with twining metalwork and dripping crystals sparkling as their switching hips billowed fabric drapes. The captivating private half-grins shared between themselves were more than enough to test the patience of those gathered.

When their Lord of Film had taken their position, the mass of almost 200 nobles had finally been assembled. A speech by Nominus Prime followed by a short prayer marked the official start of the Unctum and they all took their seats.

Napkins—they were _softer_ than they looked! Organic!—were removed and placed in their laps. At that moment a small saucer brimful of fluffy yellow puree topped with purple lepidonion shavings and cubes of augite was placed down in front of each of them. Flutes were filled with plain distilled energon and soon the rotunda was alive with the voices of those gathered. Excited grins, scandalized frowns, astonished jaw-drops: now was the time for the individual city-states to get out all of the gossip they wanted about the others’ attendees before being asked to intermingle over the next three cycles.

Powerglide wasted no time.

“Ha! Looks like Tracks might be ready to get his aft handed to ‘em this time!”

Jazz tilted his helm to the side, still trying to figure out just what it was he was eating. Surely it was a Tyger Paxan specialty because Polyhex didn’t make such things—though the toppings were familiar enough…He should probably respond, “How’d ya come ta that conclusion?”

Powerglide narrowed his optics at the younger mech, “Didn’t you see his ensemble? No string of jewels or swatches of fabric to get in the way of flying! Obviously, we’re going to settle the score once and for all this time!”

“You say the same thing every vorn,” the mech to his right, their Lord of Film, Flintlock Tainias, sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair. The severe asymmetrical composition of his chosen armor combined with its strange shades of purplish-blue, dull yellow, and faded orange didn’t align with the atmosphere of the evening. Jazz had attended rebel concerts where the aesthetic might be considered a little too polished but still more appropriate than where the slightly older mech was right now. Still, no one said anything and seemed content to pretend they didn’t notice. Jazz assimilated.

“I’ll tell you what didn’t happen this time,” their Lord of Social Sciences, Lord Landmine Socialis, interjected from his place at Jazz’s left. The mech was adorned from helm to pedes in creamy tight-fitting segmented armor. Rather than buff himself to an unnatural shine, the mech accented the slight compactness of his form with large round bands of bright shimmering red around his shoulder joints, hips, and pedes. “Did you see Perceptor and Highbrow? They’re pretty down this cycle, huh? What do you suppose happened between them?”

“He probably finally lifted his helm up enough to see his Litteratura’s actually been insulting him the entirely of their ‘friendship’.”

“Stop it! He’s not that oblivious--” Landmine admonished though the giggling ruined it. Jazz might’ve asked if he should switch places so the pair could talk easier but something told him that wasn’t allowed and he’d only get strange looks for the suggestion. After all, one didn’t switch their seat even at the formal dinners at home.

“Mm…Then ask him tomorrow if he noticed that little mix up with Blaster and Soundwave.”

“What _did_ happen there?” Jazz asked. Beside him Powerglide scowled at having been ignored. Two sets of optics shifted to Jazz and brightened as a thought occurred to them.

“I forgot this is your first time here,” the Lord of Film said to himself while Landmine grinned and teasingly whispered, “Did he catch your optic?”

Jazz didn’t have a chance to reply before the giggling started again, “You should be careful. I hear he’s a handful. Cloudburst, the Tarnese Socialis? The ruby-red mech with the blue faceplates—”

Flintlock rolled a wrist. Jazz appreciated it. He hadn’t really been paying strict attention to most of those presented. The visor made pretending very easy but there were drawbacks. No amount of detailing would make Cloudburst stand out more in his short-term memory banks and dropping hints didn’t work so well with more visual mecha when half of Jazz’s expressions were covered.

“Well,” Landmine continued, not at all offended by his younger’s impatience. “He’s said that the Prime himself ordered Lord Blaster to spend some time in Tarn to learn a bit of discipline.”

Flintlock’s whole face contorted in displeasure but he didn’t sound as troubled as he looked when he said, “It worked out well, I guess. Tarn must’ve sent Iacon their Musicorum in return.”

“Good. The little glitch’s the biggest tattler in Northern Cybertron," Powerglide grumbled, put off that no one would be returning to his thread until this one had ended. "He’ll get smelted if he tries that in Iacon.”

“I think he’s just young and scared.” Powerglide huffed. Jazz decided he liked the smooth, creamy mixture of the dish. It was sweet but the toppings brought it down with a satisfying crunch. “I think also that you’re just upset because he always caught you causing trouble whenever you visit.”

“I can’t help it if the Tarnese are jealous of Cybertronians who can fly!”

“Clearly we’ve two different experiences then,” the Lord of Film drawled. “Jealousy is not what I’d call it.”

Grapple glared balefully around the mecha at his left to the two mecha who divulged into bickering. His helm immediately turned to address Jazz’s sire to his right. Jazz promptly leaned forward a bit to get Pointblank’s attention, preferring not to be incriminated if Stepper decided to get on his seatmates about proper decorum. The Lord of Literature appeared to be lost in thought on the other side of the Lord of Social Sciences, “What do you know about Tarn’s Litteratura?”

He reset his optics and gazed at Jazz impassively, “Are you interested in him?”

“…Ya the second ta ask me that.”

The red and blue mech frowned apologetically, “Pardon.”

Landmine guffawed, “Go easy on him, Jazz. It’s a reflex.”

“Yeah, it’s like a silent rule to find a mech ya’d like to court at these things. Most of us already know each other so if we were gonna we would’ve by now but your new!” Powerglide wiggled his optic ridges suggestively. Jazz smiled but the Flintlock was speaking before he could get a word in.

“There’re a couple newbies here this vorn actually.”

“It’s to be expected. Mecha get older and don’t want to keep up with this anymore so they send their creations,” Grapple explained. Stepper stubbornly kept his faceplates turned away. Jazz couldn’t imagine he was actually interested in the statistics their Lord of Formal Science was sharing with the Lord of Painting. “Be prepared for a little harassment over the next couple cycles.”

Pointblank sighed when Jazz’s frame stiffened in alarm. His gaze was sharp as it slid from Grapple to settle more gently upon Jazz, “He’s exaggerated it. The other lords will surely express their interest and ask you plenty of questions but you’re not obligated to answer and if you feel pressured you can always report it to anyone here or the senator of their city-state.”

Landmine Socialis scrutinized his neighbor warily before smiling tightly at Jazz, “…You could also just tell them you’re not in the mood before you attempt to threaten their status in society…Sweet Cybertron, Pointblank! Is _that_ why Lord Buzzsaw hates you?!”

“ _No_ ,” the Lord of Literature hissed amidst his seatmate’s subsequent ranting about how long it’d taken him to reestablish a mutual agreement with the Stanican nobles to ignore each other enough for Polyhexian archaeologists to continue their research there.

“I heard it’s because he made you drop your drink by accident a few vorn back while taking pictures to take back home,” the Lord of Film smirked.

“Where do you all come up with this…?” Pointblank wondered aloud.

“You’re our Litteratura, my lord. You should know all the specifics about how imaginative works come into being!” Landmine chirruped. “Actually, I meant to ask you before at our last prandium but it was getting late. Did you get a chance to read the latest study released from Nova Cronum about where exactly Cybertronian creativity comes from?!”

Jazz wrinkled his nasal ridge and turned back to Powerglide but the mech was enraptured by the small debate going on between the acting Lord of Sculpting, Stepper, and the Lord of Painting over which form of art reached deeper into the spark of a Cybertronian. Naturally he disagreed with them both and offered his own biased opinion on the power of music. They all chuckled and took turns making light jabs at Powerglide who didn’t seem to catch the joke and reacted with full affront at all their teasing.

And it went on like this for joor. Plates were switched out by unobtrusive servos for bowls or glasses as the cycle drew on and Jazz forgot that he was supposed to be on display. He wasn’t the only one either. Laughter spread from all around the rotunda and instead of annoying each other like it might’ve if this had been the stuffy formal affair Ricochet had insisted it was, the other nobles would simply grin and come up with ridiculous stories about what they thought might’ve caused it based on the mecha seated at a specific table.

He’d just finished laughing at some moody complaint Grapple had made—the yellow mech hard-pressed not to smile himself—when he caught the focused gaze of his sire. Stepper’s dark lips pulled up into a firm smile, doorwings flicking approvingly, and everything was alright.


	2. The Unctum: The Second Lunar Cycle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just as the title says, it's the second night. Nothing particularly awe-inspiring happens but it's necessary to have all the same.

“The seating arrangements are different this cycle. Lords of Art are all sitting together.”

Jazz almost smiled before remembering he probably shouldn’t just in case the moisture on his faceplates needed to set some. There wasn’t much to touch up from the previous cycle. He’d done nothing but sit and talk and eat until the Prime departed--the signal that everyone else could do so at their leisure. Stepper had them leave a little after the last bites from their desserts were cleared. Jazz had wanted to stay longer and was in fact looking forward to going downstairs this cycle. While he could be cordial with everyone it was inevitable he’d prefer conversing with others about their creative talents over the foundations of the universe, “That should be nice.”

“ _All_ of them, Jazz. Not just the ones from home.”

“…I’m assumin’ that’s bad, then?” Stepper sighed. Jazz resisted the urge to frown, too. “Just last night ya told me ta relax.”

“You should enjoy yourself certainly, but do not _forget_ yourself. I want you to be careful especially if you’re placed next to any Vosians.”

“If all the Art Lords are meetin’ together then what are the odds of us gettin’ caught with ‘em? Like…seven out of 160? Somethin’ along those lines…”

“Odds are,” Stepper began almost snidely but seemed to remember who he was talking to and tried to reel it in a little, “you and I will not be grouped together.”

Jazz didn’t even have time to ask for an explanation before his sire was racing through it with an irritable click of his vocalizer. “They split our caste into three and four and sprinkle us about at random. Sometimes the Dominus Litteratura will go with the ones for Architecture, Sculpting, and Painting. Sometimes they will go with the rest to form four that way but in any case we’re separated and the way you interact needs to be delicate. Now is not the time to strain any relations.”

“Okay, so no heavy teasin’ or flirtin’…” Which all sounded like the exact opposite of what he should be doing as a newbie based on the conversations he’d been a part of yesterday but maybe he’d misinterpreted. Nuances could be a tricky thing.

“ _No gossiping_ ,” the scarlet mech stressed. “Don’t repeat anything you’ve heard. Most of it were lies bred from boredom…And don’t confirm anything.”

“Well, that’s not goin’ ta go well. The only things I know of the other nobles are what I heard about ‘em,” Jazz tried to explain when his sire’s red doorwings had flicked upwards minutely. “I’ve only seen maybe one or two of these mecha when they came ta visit ya and Ricochet at home and that was stellar cycles ago. I’m sure it’s the same for them so how am I supposed ta—”

“There’s no use complaining.”

Jazz physically recoiled. Grace made a small sound and steadied him with a firm servo against the back of his thigh. “I’m _not_. I’m just tryin’ ta figure out what I’m supposed to _do_.”

“Just as I say.”

“But what you’re sayin’ doesn’t make any sense.”

“It doesn’t have to.” Jazz turned his helm sharply. Stepper shifted.

“…So ya did this ta me just for the fun of it, then.” Across the room, Stepper rose slowly from his recline into a seated position. He couldn’t see it--the golden visor revealed nothing--but he knew from the heavy frown pulling at his sire’s dark faceplates that the mech had narrowed his optics at him. Grace shifted uncomfortably at Jazz’s pedes and tried to shine him up faster. “Does it amuse ya ta watch me trip over myself tryin’ ta please ya?”

“Quite the contrary. I want the very best for you whether you choose to believe it or not,” Stepper began in a hard voice that should have brooked no argument. His creation pushed through it. 

“No, I actually don’t. Ya don’t tell me _anythin’_. For the last five orn ya’ve just been draggin’ me around, shinin’ me up, and pointin’ me in a direction. Ya tell me what to do and then get mad at me for doin’ it. Just last cycle it was ‘calm down, calm down, oh relax, Jazz, it’s not that bad’ and now this one ya want me to go ‘round like a sparkeater’s waitin’ over my hovers!”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“ _I don’t know what I’m doin’_!”

“I’m well aware of how ill-prepared you are,” Stepper said then, volume ever even despite the way his tone had plunged so much so that Jazz’s protoform itched. The Lord of Sculpting was getting impatient. Well, that was just fine because forget feeling nervous, forget even the excitement, the Lord of Music was getting annoyed.

“How is that supposed ta help me?”

“Your carrier and I both had plans for your functioning before either of you were even sparked,” his sire continued over Jazz’s rebuke.

The younger rolled his optics and pushed air through his vents, “That’s what everymech says.”

“One of you would take over for me as Dominus Scalptor. The other would become Musicorum. We’d be released of our duty just like our creators had before us and theirs before them and so on and so forth, join one of those colonies the Prime has founded—maybe raise enough credits to buy one of our own outright and wait for you both to grow tired of your positions and join us after you’ve done the same but things _change_.”

Silence settled between them.

It was no secret that the spark in his chassis had extinguished his carrier’s when he’d separated from him as a newspark. Such was the danger of kindling. Another was the very instability Ricochet now struggled with but his creators had been hopelessly in love. Such a bond manufactured not by need or status had nurtured a desire for the ultimate symbol of that. Clearly, it ended in their detriment. Jazz would have a priest call his newspark when he was ready.

“This isn’t your fault.” Jazz didn’t say that he’d never felt it was. In fact he continued to say nothing at all. This was a baiting exchange; one he’d learned long ago never to fall for as the result was always the same. “Ricochet was older. He’s been ready to take over for me for quite some time now. Or rather he should have been. I’d intended these last three vorns in particular to’ve been spent preparing you for your own interpersonal duties but plans change. With the way Senator Starscream has been accusing ours of using our satellites for espionage in the service of their enemies…Well. You’re better with others than your cognate—”

“But you don’t want me to talk.”

“Not until I feel you’re ready to join the world stage! Properly!” Stepper growled in earnest this time, sitting up even straighter and tensing as he struggled to decide whether he should stand to tower menacingly over his creation or if it served him better to instead try burning holes through both his visor and Jazz’s. Grace all but sped from the room with a hasty bow too quick to have been suitably low enough but neither were willing to hold her for it. Jazz, because he didn’t care. Stepper because his mind was too occupied. “If it were up to me _both_ of you would have stayed home but I cannot stand in for you if I must also stand in for Ricochet! I was merely bonded to a Musicorum. I am not one myself. It had to be you or the title would go to another. You have reached maturity. Do you understand?”

“…Yes,” Jazz began slowly, begrudgingly. And it was true. He couldn’t avoid his duties forever. As a mech created with a specific function in mind to neglect this could get him deactivated for wasting space. On the flip side of this issue, he could also see how a misinterpreted phrase might disrupt the delicate dance they were currently in with their Vosian neighbors. However just knowing this wouldn’t force him to submit so absolutely. “And I appreciate ya protection of my functionin’ but I can’t _not_ talk ta _anymech_ tonight.”

“…” Stepper cycled air noisily and allowed the tension to drain a little from his frame. “You’d be seen as very rude, yes.” He agreed at length. “And anymech that wanted to approach you would surely be deterred. Not the best way to start off your diplomatic journey, to be sure…”

Jazz tried to give his sire a moment but when the speakers faded in with the same musical intro from the night before, Jazz knew their time was running out, “That doesn’t solve my problem--”

“Stick with Lord Powerglide.”

His optics flashed behind his visor, “The mech’s already achin’ ta harass half the room the first chance he gets!”

“And everymech already knows that’s standard behavior for him. No mecha should take it badly. It also relieves the pressure from you to engage quite so much since he’ll be doing more than enough of that for the both of you. We did the same thing with Lord Flintlock when it was his first time. Not with Lord Powerglide, of course, but—”

“An’ if he goes after the Vosians?” Jazz interrupted because he needed to know now before he couldn’t ask later.

The dismissive flick of his sire’s doorwings did nothing to assuage Jazz’s concerns. If anything, it was in such stark contrast to his earlier behavior that the Dominus Musicorum might’ve been put off if his sire’s moodiness weren’t already so well-known. That was surely where Ricochet got it from and between the two of them, sometimes Jazz felt like he was the only one with his helm on straight, “They can fly circles around him in the dark. It’ll be embarrassing for us but it’ll make them feel good about themselves and that’s preferable to an angry correspondence to Senator Starscream about how rude we were to his lords. Just…try to keep it from getting too nasty, will you? _No high-grade_. The last thing we need is a tabloid with an overcharged Polyhexian noble stuck in the side of a building with his pedes flailing through the air.”

Jazz twittered dubiously as he followed when Stepper rose and started for the common room. Stepper flicked his doorwings in response, “It’s happened before.”

All too soon they were sent off in different directions.

The procession had gone smoothly. Though they were separated little else had changed. He, Powerglide Histrionia, and Flintlock Tainias had been seated with the Architectura, Scalptor, Pictura, and Litteratura of Protihex—a city-state that bordered Praxus.

Three of the four were very mild-mannered and found Powerglide’s boasting more entertaining than anything. He suspected the Protihexans were just used to it. Their own Lord of Literature, Chase, put-off a little by Powerglide’s boasting quickly challenged the red aerial for the spotlight.

The remaining five members of the combined group took turns goading them into dramatic retellings of their greatest feats. Admittedly Chase Litteratura was much better at keeping his audience enraptured even if his achievements weren’t on par with Powerglide’s. It was a given considering their titles but it was still good fun that lasted until the confections ran out.

Tracer Pictura had latched themselves very early on to Flintlock. Both were on the younger end, the Protihexan moreso than the Polyhexian, and bonded well over the fact that their morbid interests confused and often times disturbed their peers.

Jazz found himself the sole focus of the remaining pair at the table.

They were both huge but in different ways.

The one immediately to his right was the largest. Even sitting he was easily twice as tall as Jazz. If he wasn’t, he might’ve been considered relatively trim but for the tall red pauldrons and matching red and silvery white chassis armor. His face was incredibly soft though and he smiled when he sensed he had Jazz’s attention, “I’m sorry. I should have introduced myself earlier but it was a tad loud for a moment. I am Roadfire Scalptor.”

“Jazz Musicorum of Polyhex. Nice ta meet ya!” The smaller black-and-white offered back with a polite grin. “And don’t worry about it. I’m just glad everymech seems ta be havin’ fun.”

“And are you? Having fun that is?”

“Oh, yeah. More than I expected ta be honest.”

Jazz thought that maybe he’d been overly so when the mech’s optics brightened but he only chuckled. Quiet though it was, the vibrations travelled and tickled Jazz’s systems pleasantly, “That’s good to hear! First times can be daunting.”

“Ya tellin’ me,” Jazz agreed. “Was yours?”

“I think everymecha would say so about one thing or another,” Roadfire mused thoughtfully. “Mine was because of my size. I wasn’t prepared to be one of the largest in the room. Is there anything troubling you in a similar way thus far?”

Jazz could go down a whole list of things but he didn’t feel it the best course of action to reveal them to a perfect stranger. He chose something safer, “Not really. I’d like ta make a good impression, of course, but...”

Roadfire nodded his helm with a small hum. “If you haven’t made a bad one, then it’s safe to assume you’ve made a good one.”

Jazz laughed, “There’s nothin’ in the middle?”

“Is that where you’d want to be?”

He clicked his vocalizer and conceded, “No, I suppose not. I appreciate ya askin’, though.”

“Which question pleased you? I’m afraid I’ve asked too many…”

“Don’t worry!” Jazz assured him, amazed that someone of his stature would fret over offending someone like him. It was as ridiculous as it was endearing. “I was warned I’d be answerin’ a lot of questions. It doesn’t bother me ta answer.” He said before he could remember that maybe it should. Stepper had made it quite clear he was supposed to be limiting his interactions. Still this wasn’t a Vosian and Powerglide was busy. Surely it couldn’t hurt? He wasn’t supposed to snub the _other_ nobles after all. “It was nice of ya ta ask if I was enjoyin’ myself.”

“Has no mech else bothered?” He wondered, mouth turned downward unhappily. Jazz felt compelled to explain.

“It’s not their fault. I’m usually the one interruptin’ with questions everymech else already knows the answers ta.”

“Do they answer you?” When Jazz trilled affirmatively the massive red pauldrons leveled. “Good. If you have any concerns, do feel free to inquire. There’s no shame in it.”

Jazz’s smile was small but more genuine when he offered it this time, “Thanks.”

“Think of it as repayment for the ones I’ve asked you.”

Jazz laughed and waved his concerns away once more.

“Don’t hog him, Roadfire,” a new voice cut in. The last mech because he was positioned next to the behemoth ended up more across from the duo than next to them. He’d been watching the conversation patiently, quietly waiting for an appropriate opening. Rather than the bright, creamy paints of most of the armor fixtures Jazz had observed, this mech had gone with traditional metals. The sharp-edged grooves carved into the blocky gilded bronze were fitted with marbles of the same reflective grey as the smoothed plating pressed down around his arms and thighs. Whenever he moved they rolled along their tracks. His helm rested heavily over his optical ridges but like Roadfire, he felt much softer than he looked. “I’d like to talk with him, too, before the night is over.”

“My apologies.” There was no real admonishment in the softer tones of his voice when he’d spoken but Roadfire was ashamed anyway. “Lord Jazz, this is Lord Erector, our Architectura.”

“I love ya armor.”

“Thank you! Same to you!”

Roadfire nodded in agreement, “It’s very stately.”

“What material did you use? Reinforced platinum or fortified white silver? Coated or plated? Painted with a high gloss?”

Jazz’s optics brightened behind his visor, “I’m…not sure, actually?” Erector’s scarlet face shifted down. Jazz glanced up at the red, blue, and white mech next to him uncertainly. Roadfire’s optics were flickering in amusement. Jazz leaned forward to better address the Architectura when he offered, “I can ask my sire who he commissioned it from if ya like?”

“Ah,” Erector nodded sagely. “A gift then. No, no, that would be impolite. Pass on my sentiments, though, will you?”

“Of course! Thank ya.” The visor had hidden the majority of his wince. His grin did the rest but beside him Roadfire shifted and when Jazz spared him a glance, was rewarded with a knowing smile.

“There is no harm done,” Roadfire rumbled gently.

Jazz preened, “Thanks!”

“No need for gratitude. You’re a natural.”

“Maybe but I’m just hopin’ I don’t make any mistakes I’ll regret later.”

For all that Roadfire praised him for it, Jazz’s charm didn’t dull the mech’s vision. The smile Jazz received was once again more indulgent than enamored, “It would depend quite a bit on what you want from your peers, I imagine.” He murmured thoughtfully. “If you desire perfection then you will always disappoint—if not the others then most certainly yourself at some point. That’s not to discourage you from striving for it but if you do err, try not to imagine you will never recover.”

“And if the mistake affects more than just me?”

“Then take your cues from your senator. Lords we may be with great influence to be sure and yet the final decisions lie with them. We are only their ambassadors, chosen to work for the good of the masses to achieve the vision they have for their city-state while they’re occupied with higher things. If your senator has not scolded you, then you have not disappointed and no one here can speak a true word against your effectiveness even if their natures conflict with yours. After all one cannot view a piece as a whole from one small angle and none of us sit alone at the top of anything more than our own small station.”

“…” Jazz peered up at the giant who tilted his helm a little. His expression was so open. The Lord of Music knew that he himself could not be that way. Not yet. But his words were definitely something to think about. “That’s good advice.”

“Quite!” He agreed and took a sip from his glass. Though his digits were massive, they handled the delicate crystal without hesitation—barely a thought, more dexterous than even his sire’s. Jazz could only imagine the level of detail they could create.

“Was that shared with ya or did ya learn it someplace?”

“It was shared,” he admitted with a touch of pride that for Jazz seemed out of place.

“A mechanism that eventually became my Amica told me something very similar during my first Unctum. I hope it serves you well, dear Jazz.”

And he could’ve objected to such informality but it left him feeling warm and welcomed and giddy so he grinned and pressed forward eagerly, “Has it changed much since then? The Unctum?”

“No more than all things do with the passage of time. Venues, attendees, programs, those sorts of things always change but the core of it remains constant.”

“Where was yours held?”

“Polyhex,” he grinned. Jazz swelled with pride.

“And yours?” He offered to Erector lest the mech feel disenfranchised.

“Uraya!” The details the two traded back and forth for Jazz were interesting enough for Lord Tracer to ease in with his own premier in Iacon.

“It was amazing! Protihex is large but the _capitol_ is just—!”

“Mine was Iacon also,” Chase Litteratura interrupted. Tracer pouted. “Debuting at the planet’s capitol is certainly extravagant but it’s not unmanageable. I could see how it could be too much for such a young noble to navigate though.”

A playfulness born of familiarity saturated the atmosphere once again at the black and bronze mech’s engine-sputter. He protested against his peers retellings of how adorable his starstruck display had been but there was no genuine discomfiture and every mech got a turn at being gently poked at.

It was very pleasant if idle chatter that Jazz’s CPU cleared from his cache not even a breem after he heard it. If it could have gone on for joor, the young Polyhexian wouldn’t have complained. As it was their dishes were removed all too soon without replacement and Stepper materialized over his pauldrons to escort him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short out of necessity. I don't really enjoy writing for the sake of length if there's no plot development added in but hopefully it was short and sweet. The next chapter should be more fulfilling if not. Until then! Thanks for reading! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Alright! That's it for now! Let me know how you like it (or if you didn't, that's okay, too, because constructive criticism is how we get better).


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